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Sarah cleared her throat. “Girls, please carry the curtains downstairs to Mrs. Crumb. She’ll know how they should be properly cleaned.”

Godric pivoted to the side to let the subdued maids past, but his gaze never left Megs’s face. “You shouldn’t be in this room. I don’t want you in this room.”

She felt her face heat and lifted her chin, holding his burning eyes. “Godric—”

He stepped closer to her, using his greater size to loom over her. “You may think me a puppet, madam, to be jerked about at your slightest whim, but I assure you I am not. I’ve been patient with your meddling in my home, but you go too far now.”

Megs’s eyes widened, her pulse heavy and fast at her throat. She opened her mouth without any idea at all of what she would say.

But Sarah spoke before she could, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault entirely—Megs just came in. We were merely cleaning out all of the rooms. We haven’t moved anything, although I can’t fathom what this room is used for.”

“It was Clara’s,” he said flatly. “And I don’t need you messing about in it.”

“Godric, I’m—”

But he’d already turned to leave. Megs took one look at Sarah’s crumpling face and ran after her husband.

He was striding down the hall, completely oblivious to the hurt he’d caused his sister.

“Godric!”

He didn’t even deign to break stride.

Megs darted around him, forcing him to stop short of the stairs and look down at her, and she saw …

God. She saw raw pain in his face.

Megs inhaled, suddenly on shaky ground. “She didn’t know.”

His lips compressed and he looked away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and reached out to touch the cuff of his coat. She almost expected him to shake her off.

Instead he merely stared down at her fingers. “Sarah should’ve asked first.”

“Of course. We all should’ve asked before sending your house into such an upheaval. But, Godric …” She stepped closer, his cuff caught between her forefinger and thumb, her bodice nearly brushing the stiff wool of his coat. She angled her head to try to catch his eyes. “You wouldn’t have consented had we asked, would you?”

He was silent.

“You’re so self-sufficient.” She puffed a small laugh. “It’s daunting, because the rest of us aren’t. Your sisters and mother aren’t—”

“Stepmother.” His gaze slid toward hers, still unyielding, but at least he was listening.

“Stepmother, then,” she compromised. “But I know Mrs. St. John and she’s quite fond of you. All your family is. They hardly hear from you. Your letters are few and maddeningly uncommunicative. They worry for you.”

He grimaced in irritation. “There’s no need.”

“Isn’t there?”

He stared down at her, his face sagging into lines of weariness, and she abruptly understood that he’d learned to school his features into the mask of strict, unrelenting neutrality he usually wore.

“You know there is,” she whispered. “You know that those who love you have real cause for concern.”

“Margaret.”

She straightened. “So you should go back and apologize to your sister.”

He shot her a look of incredulous exasperation.

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